Experiment in Warehouse 7
by moelock
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and arguably becoming a good one. He sets up an experiment to understand this strange thing called "friendship", while Moriarty is out to prove that his heart - and his friends - are his greatest downfall.
1. Collecting the Pieces

**Title:** Experiment in Warehouse 7  
><strong>Paring(s):<strong> Up to your interpretation; hints of John/Sherlock & Lestrade/Molly  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sherlock attempts to test just how far his "friends" will go for him in a little experiment that involves John, Lestrade, Molly, and surprisingly, Mycroft. Until a Consulting Criminal interrupts with an experiment of his own.

**A/N: **Set in season two, post-Hounds, pre-Reichenbach (cue gross sobbing) so do expect some spoilers. A scene in HoB inspired the premise for this. If I've made any grammatical and spelling errors, or just any errors in general, please let me know! I'll be sure to look over them and use your criticisms to improve my writing for future chapters/stories. Reviews, favorites, alerts, etc, are very much appreciated. With that said, please enjoy and thank you for reading!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong> Collecting the Pieces

* * *

><p>Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had gotten the phone call from Sherlock at approximately 1:20 in the morning.<p>

He woke up with a start, the shrill cry of his ringtone nearly giving him a heart attack. After he had settled things with his wife and she had left, the house was quieter and though there was one less person in the home than he was used to, sleep (not surprisingly) came much more easily to him. His eyes cracked open and he squinted to read the caller ID: Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade stared at it for a moment, thinking it was peculiar for the Consulting Detective to _call_. Everyone knew he preferred to text.

He answered, "Sherlock?"

The response was immediate and the man on the other line sounded as cool and collected as ever, "Lestrade."

"What is it? It's rare for you to call and at this time of night." He yawned as he leaned back against the bed's headboard.

"John and I were inspecting a series of abandoned warehouses in correspondence to a client's request, but it seems that we've been trapped. And no, there's no way out from the inside. But whoever's behind this is an idiot. His men didn't even think to confiscate my phone. I need you to come and open the garage from the outside."

Lestrade swung his legs over the bed and got up. With the phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek, he rummaged through his drawers for a clean pair of trousers and muttered into the phone, "Yeah, okay. Should I bring the team with me?"

As soon as he said it, he knew Sherlock was going to think it was a stupid question, "Of course, Inspector, if you can't even manage to break a chained lock on your own."

Lestrade sighed, "Right, right. So, where are you?" He pulled out tan trousers and sat back on the bed, kicking his legs through the holes.

"I'll text you the address." And Sherlock hung up.

Seconds later, Lestrade's phone gave a single _beep _as Sherlock's text arrived. He read it and nodded in response. He found a hammer in his tool set, slipped on a coat, and left his flat to catch a cab. Or, at least, that was the plan. Before he could do anything beyond putting trousers and a shirt on, two men in black rushed into his room and knocked him unconscious.

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper had gotten the phone call from Sherlock at approximately 7:31 at night, when she was watching re-runs of <em>Doctor Who<em> with her cat, Toby, curled comfortably on her lap.

When her phone chimed, she immediately reached for it. The name on called ID sent her heart thumping: Sherlock Holmes.

She unconsciously began smoothing her hair, picking at her face, catching a quick glimpse of her reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace, before realizing sooner or later, the ringing would stop, and she answered, her voice high and coming out as a barely-audible squeak, "H-hello?" She wanted to kick herself.

"Molly, listen carefully. In about 10 minutes, two men in black suits are going to break into your flat. They're going to take you to an abandoned warehouse and you're going to cooperate with them. Don't do anything stupid; just do what they say. Do you understand?"

Molly was completely dumbfounded. She could barely keep up with what Sherlock was saying – he was speaking far too quickly, but yes, she did understand the basics. People in black suits were coming. Coming for her. Why?

"Wait, why are they coming for me?"

"Not the problem right now. I asked if you understood what I told you."

"Y-yes."

"Good. From what I've seen, they're all morons. John and I were close enough to hear their plan, which is why I called you. Most likely, they'll bring you to the same warehouse we've been trapped in. Remember, don't be stupid." And he hung up.

Molly sank into her sofa, trembling a bit. She had been on the phone with Sherlock for just over a minute. That meant, according to Sherlock, she had the next nine minutes or so to mentally prepare herself. But Sherlock had said that they were going to take her to where he was and that, somehow, put her mind and heart at ease. At least she wasn't going to be alone.

The next nine minutes were dreadfully slow, yet alarmingly fast at the same time. Like Sherlock had said, two men came into her flat and Molly did just as she was told.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes had gotten the phone call from Sherlock at exactly noon, when he was enjoying a hot cup of tea in his office and reading through a file. He answered with a sigh, "Yes?"<p>

"Hello, _brother dear_!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. That was the disgustingly friendly tone of his younger brother when he needed a favour. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I'm doing an experiment."

Mycroft could feel a migraine building in his head, "What is it this time?"

* * *

><p>"I guess the gang's all together now…"<p>

Everyone except Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade, who had only thrown out the comment in order to lighten the mood. He could tell that it hadn't served its purpose.

The Inspector had woken up on the cold concrete floor of Warehouse #7 nearly 20 minutes ago and sat up to find that he was the final piece in completing what he aptly named "The Improbable-and-Unusually-Awkward Circle of Friends".

To his left was Molly, sitting with her legs crossed. She was staring down at her twiddling thumbs and occasionally darting glances at Sherlock, then John, and finally, himself.

To his right was John Watson, sitting up straight and perfectly still. When he caught Lestrade looking at him, he gave a small smile.

Now, directly across from him, but sitting a little too far out to be perfectly part of the circle, was Sherlock Holmes. He was leaning against a wooden crate, head forward, eyes closed, brows knitted together, and hands making dramatic motions, as if he were directing a movie set. After half an hour of just watching, Lestrade finally asked John, "What's he doing?"

"Oh, he's trying to piece together who could've done this. He's gone to his Mind Palace and he's been there for a few hours. Normally, he prefers to be alone, but seeing as we can't exactly go anywhere… He'll probably come back in a little bit if he finds something or if he gets too frustrated to keep at it." John explained like it was something he had seen every day. Lestrade had seen Sherlock _think,_ but not like that. He didn't really get it, but then again, he never thought Sherlock was someone just any man could completely understand.

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes shot open and he sprung up on his feet, growling, "It doesn't make any sense!"

"Sherlock?" John looked up at his flatmate.

Sherlock began to pace back and forth, his great coat swishing behind him. He threw his hands in the air and turned on his heels, jabbing his finger towards Molly, "What did the two men who brought you here look like?"

Molly jumped at the sudden attention, "Um, well, they were wearing suits, just like you said. One of them was about your height and the other was a little taller than the Inspector," she gave a small nod of acknowledgement towards Lestrade, who smiled in return, "the first person had blond hair, parted down the middle and a clean-shaven face, while the other had greying hair and he was an older man. Both of them had blue eyes."

Sherlock steepled his fingers against his chin in thought, "Good, excellent. Lestrade, judging by the fact that you were the only one unconscious, you were too disoriented to get details, but you should be able to remember if the men who assaulted you were the same who brought Molly."

Lestrade shook his head, "I caught a glimpse of them before I blacked out and I'm pretty sure both of them had brown hair."

"That's four people and there were a group of five discussing their plans when me and Sherlock were first stuck here. So then, that must mean –" John was interrupted by Sherlock's concluding deductions, "They have a whole army of people if they're willing to use different men for the same task, within similar time frames. But, they don't even bother to cover their faces, which further suggests the fact that they're great in numbers since even if one of their men is caught, they're clearly expendable. That, and they're morons who think we can't tell the difference between faces and hair colour."

He sat back down, this time actually a part of the circle.

Molly spoke up, "But why are they doing this?"

"I don't know. I thought that it would be over with John and I captured, since we're normally the targets, but they brought you two here _after_ us. Their motives remain unclear to me for now." Sherlock once again leaned against the crate behind him and drew his knees to his chest, but kept his eyes open, apparently observing their surroundings.

The warehouse they were in was dimly lit. Windows lined the top of all four walls. He could spot a few men in black here and there, surveying them. Fans (none of them turning) and lights (24/60 on) hung from the ceiling. Empty wooden boxes were scattered throughout the warehouse and mattresses (complete with blankets) were stacked along one wall, but other than that, nothing and no one else but the four friends were present. He sniffed the air – mothballs and dust; so this used to be storage for clothing. In front of him was a garage. He turned his head and peered beyond the crater; there was no garage behind them. There was only one way in and out of the warehouse and it was bolted shut from the outside. Mycroft did a fairly proper job in setting a suitable location.

"John, Lestrade, bring those mattresses. You'll need something to sleep on. We're not getting out any time soon." He glanced at Molly, "One for Ms. Hooper over here, as well."

Molly rose and wrung her hands together, "No, I'll go get it myself. But, thank you."

Lestrade protested, "What about you?"

Sherlock waved the DI's concerns away, "Don't need to sleep. Slept for a few hours the other day after our last case was closed."

"Yeah, well, we'll get you one anyways." John nodded in agreement. The three of them came back dragging a mattress and blanket. Lestrade took Molly's halfway and brought it back for her.

John placed a mattress in front of Sherlock, who didn't even bother to say thank you, while he sat on his own.

Lestrade placed a mattress in front of Molly, who was polite enough to relay her thanks. Both of them took their spot on their respective mattresses.

A few moments of silence passed until Sherlock's phone rang with an incoming text:

Don't draw this out  
>for too long.<br>-M

Sherlock smirked and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

"Who was that?" John scooted himself and his mattress closer to Sherlock.

"Mycroft." It wasn't a lie.

"Drunk texting you again?" John grinned.

Sherlock chuckled, genuinely amused. There were times when Mycroft drunk texted both Sherlock _and_ John. The first time it happened, they spent minutes laughing at Mycroft's expense and for the rest of the day, they would start the cackling all over again whenever they even looked at each other.

"Why don't you just ask your brother to get us out of here?" John ventured.

"No, the situation hasn't escalated that high yet. We've yet to see blood!"

John stifled a giggle, "Not funny, Sherlock."

Lestrade jumped in, "What kind of case were you two working on, anyways?"

"You read his blog. You'll find out when we've solved it." He pulled out his phone to check the time, "3:42AM. You might as well get some sleep. We've still got a few hours before the sun comes up. They won't disturb us until then." He eyed the passing men through the windows above them.

"Right…" Lestrade looked around, before resigning to his mattress and slipping under his thin blanket. He turned on his side with his back to the rest of the circle. Molly followed suit, murmuring a quiet, "Good night." Both of them fell asleep in a matter of minutes. Lestrade had been awoken from a deep slumber and falling back into it wasn't a problem. Molly hadn't had any sleep at all, having been kidnapped when the night was still young, and was quite exhausted.

John stayed awake and shared Sherlock's crate for back support. It was the least Sherlock could allow after taking half of John's mattress space. Sherlock's abandoned mattress was pushed into the centre of the circle.

They sat together in comfortable silence and oddly enough, the atmosphere wasn't that much different than at Baker Street, minus Lestrade's snoring and Molly's small figure, completely engulfed by her blanket. They had many, _many_ days where Sherlock wouldn't speak and John wouldn't interrupt his thought process, but quiet didn't always mean awkward.

John tried his best to keep from falling asleep, but Sherlock's warm body against his own and the blanket draped across him was more than he could handle. His head drooped forward against his will countless times, until finally, Sherlock gently forced it to rest against his shoulder. John dozed off almost immediately.

Sherlock successfully picked his phone from his pocket without disturbing his flatmate's rest and fired off a text to Mycroft:

Did you tell Mrs Hudson  
>where John and I are?<br>-S

He set the phone on vibrate.

It buzzed a minute later.

Staying at a hotel in Cardiff.  
>How long are you going to<br>keep this up?  
>-M<p>

Until I get enough data.  
>-S<p>

You can't measure loyalty  
>and friendship like you measure<br>your solutions in a Chemistry lab  
>Sherlock.<br>-M

A flicker of annoyance ran through him. He was done texting Mycroft for today.

He took turns watching everyone in what he called "The Circle of Average Minds", which obviously excluded himself. They were all so human, so awed and inspired by his brilliant mind. But why? Sherlock, despite hardly ever showing it, appreciated their undying interest and fascination towards him, but why these people decided to stay and believe in his humanity, was beyond him.

John was the one constantly exposed to Sherlock's ridiculous tendencies; playing the violin at ungodly hours, cooking body parts in the microwave, storing body parts and decapitated heads in the refrigerator, nearly killing both of them (and Mrs Hudson) with chemical experiments, the list was endless. Living together wasn't all roses. They had arguments and Sherlock _never_ apologized directly, but only offered a good murder and chase throughout London as compensation. Yet John stayed. Whenever he left the flat, Sherlock could count on the fact he would most definitely return.

Lestrade saw Sherlock during his worst years, the years when he was drowning in narcotics with no visible way out. The DI was surrounded by colleagues who insisted Sherlock was a psychopath, that one day there would be a body and it would be the Consulting Detective who put it there, yet he insisted that the opposite was true: one day, Sherlock would prove to not only be a great man, but a good one, as well

And then there was Molly, who was utterly and madly in love with Sherlock, who in turn understood the concept of love, yet never permitted himself to waste time indulging in it. No matter how harshly he had spoken to her, she too, never left. With one kind word, one simple complement on her hair, all of his sins were wiped away. Sherlock treated her like an idiot, but during that Christmas party when she had finally stuck up for herself, he had seen her anew, with more respect than ever before.

Despite the fact that these three had proven themselves loyal over and over again, Sherlock had his insecurities. And what better way than to solve his insecurities scientifically, like he always had with other problems? Perhaps this experiment was "Not Good" as John would say, but it would be over as soon as he willed it and no one would get hurt.

...Probably.

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><p><strong>Ending note:<strong> Chapter 2 is also up and I don't know if it's just me, but there's no option to click "Next" for it. So, just go to the top in the URL and change the "1" before the /Experiment_in_Warehouse_7 to "2" and it'll take you right to it! Thanks!


	2. Watch Him Dance

**Title:** Experiment in Warehouse 7  
><strong>Paring(s):<strong> Up to your interpretation; hints of John/Sherlock and Lestrade/Molly.  
><strong>Rated:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sherlock attempts to test just how far his "friends" will go for him in a little experiment that involves John, Lestrade, Molly, and surprisingly, Mycroft. Until a Consulting Criminal starts an experiment of his own.

**A/N: **Set in season two, post-Hounds, pre-Reichenbach (cue gross sobbing) so do expect some spoilers. A scene in HoB inspired the premise for this. With that said, please enjoy and thank you for reading!

Also, before we start, I'm going to quickly explain the card game, Spoons. I actually never played this game until last year, when my roommates and I played. It's pretty fun! So this is how we played: basically, each player starts out with 5 cards. They can't have more than 5 and they can't have less than 4. Whatever cards remain after everyone gets 5 is stacked in front of the dealer. Also, you need some spoons, or any object, really, as long as they're similar in size. Take the amount of spoons equal to the number of players minus one, and put them in the center. So, for example, if you have 5 players, then you'll have 4 spoons. The goal is to get 4 of a kind. Now, sit in a circle. The dealer begins by picking up a card from the stack and he has the choice of keeping it or passing it. If he decides to keep it, because it helps him get closer to 4 of a kind, he has to pick a card out of his own hand and pass that on. The cycle continues until someone gets 4 of a kind. If you get 4 of a kind, you have to SNEAKILY take a spoon. The game continues until everyone but one person has a spoon and you can ONLY pick up a spoon if you have 4 of a kind. I hope this made some sense...

With that said, please enjoy and thank you for reading!

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><p><strong>Chapter 2:<strong> Watch Him Dance

* * *

><p>There was nothing much to do once the sun rose and everyone was awake again. The men in black didn't show any signs of coming back into the warehouse; they continued to simply watch from through the windows. When John found a deck of cards in his jacket pocket, he suggested they play to pass the time.<p>

"Sherlock, that's cheating!" John took his cards and asked for everyone else's, who wearily complied, because this was the sixth time they had to start over. He piled the cards together and handed them to Lestrade for shuffling, "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

Sherlock stretched his legs out and huffed, leaning back on the palms of his hands, "No, it's being clever."

"No, that's being unfair. I said you can take one cigarette only, but you keep on taking all three. And you didn't even have 4 of a kind!"

"This is ridiculous! You call this game 'Spoons', yet you play with cigarettes." He sprung forward and drew his legs in, shoving his clenched fist around said cigarettes in front John's face.

"In case it's missed your _brilliant_ notice, Sherlock, _we don't have any spoons_!"

"Oh, so you carry a pack of playing cards with you, but no spoons?"

Lestrade saw that John and Sherlock were busy bickering, so he took the role of Dealer and began passing the cards around himself.

"I was out playing cards with Stamford the other night and left them in my jacket pocket. Did you even notice that I went out?" John reached for his cards and straightened them out neatly, without looking at them.

Sherlock did the same. He scoffed, "I never do."

Lestrade took this opportunity to wedge into the conversation, "Right then. Let's try this again," he dared to shoot Sherlock a glare, "the proper way."

"Yes, this game can be quite fun!" Molly chimed in cheerfully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered, "Oh, dear god."

John nudged him in the ribs, "Behave, Sherlock. And put those cigarettes back in the centre." Sherlock grudgingly obeyed.

Lestrade picked up his set of cards and everyone followed.

Sherlock's eyes swept over his own set and quickly memorized it: two 5's, a Jack, King, and one 10. This was too easy; all he had to do was get two more 5's. He quickly glanced to his side to see what John's cards were and not to his surprise, John was staring right back at him, cards pressed against his chest. Oh, clever John, he knew Sherlock's methods and he knew them well. Sherlock, though his plans were foiled, couldn't help but smile. His attention then turned to Molly, whose cards were completely exposed; even Lestrade could easily make out what they were (not that the honest Detective would ever even try). Her cards were all over the place; a 6, a Queen, a 2, an ace, and a 10. With the dim lighting and not much difference in height when they were all sitting down, Sherlock couldn't make out Lestrade's cards.

"Ready, guys?" Lestrade made eye contact with everyone, to make sure they were prepared before he began passing around the cards. They all nodded in confirmation and leaned forward, as if ready to march forth for war. Tensions rose and as confident as Sherlock was, he even felt himself tremble with… excitement? Yes, and _nervousness_. But he wasn't the only one. He noticed Lestrade's unsteady hand as it reached for the stack and pulled up the first card. He didn't need it and quickly passed it on. They had six prior practice games. Everyone was professional at passing cards they had no need for and keeping cards they needed with precision and swiftness.

The flow of cards was like a rushing river, threatening to deal a deadly paper cut. Molly was actually right, Sherlock mused; this game _was_ exhilarating when played correctly. Speaking of Molly, she was quite skilled. She moved along and picked her cards faster than the rest, even faster than Sherlock himself, who was so quick with his hands, he could open most locks within five seconds.

Everyone's eyes darted this way and that, concentrating on their own cards, while concentrating on cards coming and going.

"Shit!" John exclaimed, as his hand hesitantly let a card go.

"No take-backs, John." Sherlock commented, smirking, as he took the card – a 5. Perfect. He smoothly slipped it into his hand and pulled out a Queen he had replaced his original King with, tossing it into the river.

Molly picked it up and put it into her hand, her face brightening at the addition. She now had three Queens. When did she get two more of those? Sherlock grimaced. He and Molly both only needed one more card. Luckily, what they each needed was different.

Sherlock couldn't tell how well John was doing. Considering he had deemed losing that 5 a great loss, he was probably collecting for that and something else. But what was that something else?

His attention then turned to Lestrade, all while continuing to pass the cards around. The entire playing field was a flurry of hands and shifting eyes.

Wait. Where was one of the cigarettes?

_Lestrade._

The Detective caught Sherlock's fierce leer, and shot back a triumphant grin.

Sherlock couldn't help but gasp as he saw his hand release the last Queen in slow motion. He wanted to stop it, snap back his arm, but it was too late. His fingers had already released its hold -

- and Molly snatched the card up, saw it, and smiled like she had never smiled before. If it weren't for the fact that one had to be _discrete_ when winning in this game, she most certainly would have leapt up and started dancing. Her hand stealthily went for the cigarette and claimed it. Not a second later, Sherlock saw John's arm shoot out from his peripheral vision and grab the last cigarette.

The three victors cheered. They knew Sherlock noticed all of the cigarettes were gone, so celebrations were in order.

For a moment, Sherlock sat dumbfounded. Then he shouted, "No! At least one of you was premature in picking up your _spoon_. Not you," he turned towards Molly, "your cards were as clear as day to me. But _you_," he looked at Lestrade then at John, "and _you_."

John just smiled, half in understanding at Sherlock's acute sense of competitiveness, half in satisfaction, and displayed his cards.

Sherlock's lips pressed together in a thin line. John had four 7's and a 5. A perfectly fair win.

His head then whipped around to Lestrade, who showed his cards with a certain air of pride. He had four 3's, along with a 4. Also perfectly fair. "Don't take it too hard. It's just a game among some friends. We weren't even betting anything!" Lestrade offered with a smile, but that smile just infuriated Sherlock even further.

His shoulders hunched over in resignation. He had lost. He had lost an easy game that took memorization and speed – two skills Sherlock had _perfected_.

"I don't want to play this anymore." He sulked.

John giggled, "Good because you can't. No cigarette, no more playing."

Sherlock chucked his cards into the centre with a grunt, "Shut up."

"Good game, Molly. You were really sly at getting that cigarette." Lestrade complimented as he held out his hand to take Molly's cards.

She flushed and placed her cards onto his palm, "Thanks. I played a lot with my friends back when we were in Uni. They always called me a fox because I was so sneaky." She began to laugh at the fond memory and Lestrade chuckled with her. "You were really good, too, John!" she added.

"It's a good thing that the 7 came when it did. And that I was lucky enough to keep that 5 away from Sherlock." John handed his cards over to Lestrade, who began shuffling for another game. "So, I guess we're playing again? Sherlock, any sign of those guys opening that garage?"

Sherlock gave a curt "No" and fell back into silence. Weren't these things called "friends" supposed to be forgiving in situations like these? Say something like 'Oh it was your first time, we'll give you another chance.' and gladly let him back in? He was reverting into a child who didn't have a toy to play with because all of the other children already took them from the toy bin. Lestrade made an unintentional snort while he was trying to stifle his amusement, which sent Molly and John roaring with laughter.

The DI began passing the cards around again as the other two remaining players put their cigarettes in the middle.

"C'mon, Sherlock. Two more rounds and you'll be able to join in again. You're doing better than you were at Cluedo." John tried to appease his brooding flatmate.

"I'm not at fault in Cluedo. The very rules of that game are faulty. And I've already said I don't want to play your stupid game of Spoons anymore." Sherlock stood up and paced around the circle, "John has two 6's, an 8, 9, and 10, almost a perfect straight, but alas, this isn't Poker."

"Sherlock." John warned.

"The Inspector also has a 6 – pity for you, John – a Jack, 3, 4, and an ace. Molly – well, you can all just see for yourself, the way she flashes her cards, as if she's saying 'Oh, look at me, I want to be beaten!' How did you _ever_ win."

"Sherlock!"

He spun around and looked at John. He knew he was in the wrong, but it was just so _frustrating._ "Don't mind me. You'll all see each other's cards by the end, anyways."

The three players simultaneously sighed and tossed their cards to the floor.

At that same moment, curtains fell and hid the windows and the 24 lights that were on all night suddenly expired, leaving the warehouse pitch black.

"…Sherlock?" John started.

"Quiet." The Consulting Detective ordered. He looked around to decipher what was going on, but to no avail. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, but there wasn't enough light for him to make out anything but shapes. This wasn't part of the plan. He drew out his phone and texted Mycroft:

What's going on?  
>-S<p>

The reply was instantaneous:

What are you going on  
>about?<p>

-M

I didn't ask to turn the  
>lights off.<br>-S

Neither did I.  
>-M<p>

After a minute for thoughts to process:

Both you and I can guess  
>who did.<br>-M

Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket, but everyone saw the look on his face before the light from his phone faded.

"W-what's wrong?" Molly asked before anyone else could.

"Moriarty."

And silence again.

The name alone sent chills down everyone's spine. They all knew what the Consulting Criminal was capable of. They had all seen and were all once, somehow, a part of his schemes.

A screech penetrated the silence and John, Molly, and Lestrade covered their ears. The noise was _piercing_.

Then a few pounding puffs, as if someone was tapping on a microphone, resounded in the air, followed by the last voice any of them wanted to hear, "Is this on?"

They all stopped breathing and hearts went still. Sherlock turned his head in the direction of the voice.

Their vision went white as all 60 lights were turned on at the same time. The result was blinding and made them see stars.

"Oh, come now. Don't look so scared! It's been so _long_! Have you missed me, boys?"

When he could actually see, Sherlock looked at John, who had that same expression he had the day at the pool, then at Lestrade, who looked positively lost, though he knew perfectly well what was going on, and at Molly, who sat in horror, staring at the floor, hands covering her mouth. She was shaking.

"You've been so frequent in the papers, it's as if you were never gone." Sherlock shouted back. He knelt down and picked up Molly's blanket, draping it over her and lightly resting a hand on her shoulder. Her head snapped up, surprised at the sudden kindness, but Sherlock wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Lestrade, giving him some kind of mental cue. The DI narrowed his eyes for a second, deciphering what Sherlock was trying to tell him, then got the message and took the Consulting Detective's place beside Molly.

Sherlock stood again and John hopped to his feet, as well. Both of them looked up at the windows, still hidden by the curtains.

"You think he's up there?" John whispered.

"If not now, he will be. He knows he'll have to take us head-on if he takes us on at all." Sherlock replied, voice low and gruff.

"You've been keeping tabs on me; that's _sweet_, Sherlock. But you know as well as anybody… _**THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO**_!" The last phrase sounded nearly demonic. Molly jumped and Lestrade probably would have too, but he was given the task of looking after Molly and if the guardian was visibly scared, then there was no hope for the one he was protecting.

Sherlock and John stood their ground. They had personally heard Moriarty's sudden vocal swings before and though it came when they least expected it, they wouldn't be startled.

"You fell into this trap without even knowing it, Sherlock. You can't win… you just can't." He paused, probably to allow himself a little smirk and Sherlock could tell what was coming next, "I'll give you a little more time. Why don't you tell your _friends_ exactly why they're here?" And with a simple click, his voice was gone.

The curtains rose, but no more men in black were watching through the windows. The lights dimmed again and the 60 were reduced back to 24.

"What did he mean by that, Sherlock?" John turned and looked at him with concern.

Sherlock swallowed and couldn't look at John, "Nothing."

John took a step closer, his voice stern, "No, Sherlock, _why_ are we here? _Really_?"

He could feel all eyes on him and the growing realization that his planned experiment was definitely more than just "Not Good" gave him a strange stirring feeling in his chest.

* * *

><p>Mycroft was in his office, planning on how to get around Moriarty and get Sherlock and his friends out. His dramatic little brother always did cause him such inconveniences.<p>

His phone buzzed with an incoming text:

What song shall I have him  
>dance to next?<p>

The text had no signature, but Mycroft knew exactly who it was. He held his head in his hands, but he couldn't abandon hope yet. Surely, Sherlock hadn't. No, he knew Sherlock had just begun. There was more at stake this time than ever before and Sherlock knew it, as well as Mycroft observed it. He had people he cared about now and had people who, oddly enough, cared and loved him just as much.

Mycroft rose from his seat and dashed out of his office. He would have to partake in some of the legwork himself this time.


	3. Sentiment

**Title:** Experiment in Warehouse 7  
><strong>Paring(s):<strong> Up to your interpretation; hints of John/Sherlock and Lestrade/Molly.  
><strong>Rated:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sherlock attempts to test just how far his "friends" will go for him in a little experiment that involves John, Lestrade, Molly, and surprisingly, Mycroft. Until a Consulting Criminal starts an experiment of his own.

**A/N: **Set in season two, post-Hounds, pre-Reichenbach (cue gross sobbing) so do expect some spoilers. A scene in HoB inspired the premise for this.

Also, I just wanted to say, wow, thank you all so much for reading! I've gotten so many e-mails saying people have added this to their alerts, along with favorites and telling me it's gotten a couple reviews. Hopefully, I can keep writing up to your expectations… And again, if I've made any sort of mistakes anywhere at all, please do let me know!

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3:<strong> Sentiment

* * *

><p>"An <em>experiment<em>?" John bellowed. He was running right past angry, to furious, then to livid. "Then that client, coming here, it was all part of your plan? And Mycroft actually helped you?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted this way and that, trying to find something other than John, Lestrade, or Molly, to lock onto. "Yes, well…" He wasn't in a position to make any sort of excuse or give an explanation that would get him out of trouble. Because this time, they were neck deep in danger, arguably due to Sherlock's insecurities and his ignorance of the consequences his continuous human experiments were bound to have.

"Sherlock, we agreed you wouldn't do this kind of stuff anymore." John took another step closer. He was so close now, Sherlock could feel the warmth radiating from his body. He dared to look down at his companion and immediately regretted it. There was a mixture of hurt, disbelief, and rage in John's eyes, to a level Sherlock had never seen before.

"You're angry. With me." He stated the obvious, for once trying to be cautious with his words, for fear he would make things worse than they already were and things were very, very bad already.

John looked baffled. Then exasperated. He threw his hands up in the air – much like Sherlock did when he didn't have any cases for a prolonged period of time – and turned away. "This isn't just about you and me, Sherlock. You've gotten Molly _and_ Greg mixed up in it!" He shook his head and then ran a hand down his face, clearly disappointed.

Oh, no. John being disappointed was something Sherlock had to try his hardest to work around. He could appease anger and exasperation with his odd charm, but disappointment was something much deeper and closer to the _heart_, which were unfamiliar and strange waters.

He opened his mouth to say something then closed it again. He was rendered was speechless.

This experiment wasn't like the one he conducted in Baskerville. That time, he knew John was going to be safe. Well, he _knew_ this time, too, he knew all of them would return safely after a day or two of tests that were meant to determine, clearly, why these people had chosen to stick to him like glue after he had both intentionally and unintentionally pushed them away. He had deduced the means behind the gigantic hound incorrectly at Baskerville, but that was mended with some revised deductions and gathering information.

But this, he had made a flaw at the _foundation_ of the experiment.

Sherlock broke away from staring at John's back and looked at Molly and Lestrade, still sitting together on the floor. The DI had an arm protectively wrapped around Molly and both of them were looking at Sherlock with shock. Disappointment had not settled in with them, not yet.

"What were you trying to accomplish, doing all this?" Lestrade asked. Molly expectedly waited for an answer. John made no movement.

How to explain? Sherlock didn't know where to even start. Why did he do this? He knew why. Didn't he? The gears in his mind rapidly spun, crashing together, running into complications, looking for the proper words in the many volumes of dictionaries crammed into his head. What language did he need? French? German? Japanese?

English. Plain, simple English.

Speaking had never been more difficult.

"I wanted to see –" he rose a hand to stop himself because that was wrong. He had already seen their devotion and loyalty clearly and on countless occasions. He wanted - needed - something else, "I needed to know."

"What do you mean?" John turned back around to face him again, arms crossed. His lips were set in a thin line. But he was willing to listen – they all were.

And just like that, his conductor of light had come through for him again. The words he had searched for flowed more easily now.

"You all _care_ so much. About everyone and everything. You've all witnessed death and know very well it happens all the time. Wars kill people. People kill people. The hospital you work at is full of people dying. Yet you allow yourself to be bothered whenever news of a murder or a boy falling down a well is highlighted on the news." He paused because the next bit was a bit harder to convey. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat – that annoying, strange lump, so uncomfortable and foreign, that became more frequent after he met John and opened up to Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, sometimes even Mycroft – and took a breath in before continuing, "People tell you all sorts of things. Things about me. And you're bothered by that, too. Why? Why would that bother you?"

Sherlock scanned the faces of the three people staring at him with an expression he couldn't quite make out.

Molly was the first to speak, "You said it yourself. It's because we care."

Sherlock didn't understand.

"Listen, Sherlock. Just because we're not your friends, doesn't mean you're not ours. Probably, out of all of us, John is the only one who you really acknowledge. That doesn't mean we still can't think about your well-being from time to time." Lestrade tried to elaborate as best as he could. It was a bit embarrassing, really, to personally admit to Sherlock that he thought they're relationship was more than just colleagues, knowing full-well Sherlock most likely didn't feel the same.

He still didn't understand, not completely. But the lump in his throat began to clear and the stirring in his chest was a different kind of sensation, lighter, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. The feeling was annoying – _sentimental_ – but the discomfort was gone. It was _new_.

"So you have a plan, right? To get us out of here."

Sherlock looked at his flatmate with narrowed eyes, looking for any clues that hinted he was on the way to forgiveness, "John?"

"No, just because I'm talking to you doesn't mean you're off the hook. But we need to think of something before Moriarty shows up again."

"He's coming _here_?" Lestrade rose to his feet and took Molly's hand to help her up. As she stood, the blanket around her shoulders slid off and coiled onto the floor.

John exchanged glances with Sherlock, who nodded, and replied, "Probably."

"There isn't much to work with here. We could hide in between the wooden crates, but they'll have men surrounding the area and aiming for us from above if they decide to kill us here. I know Moriarty is going to come here himself. When he does, he can only get through that garage, the only way in and out of this warehouse. We'll take that opportunity to –"

Sherlock suddenly felt something pierce the back of his neck. He automatically reached behind and returned with a needle. He spun around and looked up at the windows, but saw no one. His vision blurred and his knees locked as he fell forward.

"Sherlock?" John caught him before he hit the ground, "What was that?" He took the needle from Sherlock's hand and ran it under his nose, smelling it.

The other two were by their side now.

"What's wrong with him?"

"The garage, it's opening!"

"Oh, Christ!"

Their voices sounded far away and muffled like they were all underwater. He couldn't even make out who was who. His body went limp and heavy, like a boulder thrown into the ocean. He felt John's strong arms being forced away and someone else's rough hands dragging him along the cold, concrete floor. He heard his name screamed from every direction. And crying, someone was crying – probably Molly, he managed to note. His eyes rolled back and everything went black.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock woke up, he was sitting on his chair in 221B, legs crossed, and hands folded on his lap.<p>

When had he fallen asleep?

His head was killing him, blood pounding and vision fading in and out. He gave his head a few fierce shakes and eventually was able to function properly.

"John?" He lifted himself from the chair and looked around.

No John.

"Mrs Hudson?" He shouted.

And waited.

No footsteps - his landlady's signature skipping - echoed from beyond the door.

"MRS HUDSON!" He tried again, louder this time.

No Mrs Hudson.

Where had they all gone?

Wait. Something was wrong. He sniffed the air, then directed his attention to the kitchen. It was morning – obviously, by the bright rays of sun seeping through the transparent curtains – but there was no sweet aroma of tea brewing and no kettle sitting on the stove. Normally John made some, but if he went out the night before then it was Mrs Hudson who took the task upon herself. Really, she said she wasn't a housekeeper, but she never could stop from meddling for long.

Suddenly, a flood of thoughts caved in on him and he staggered back.

_Moriarty_.

_Warehouse 7. Needle. Rendered unconscious. _

_John. Molly. Lestrade. Not here. Taken elsewhere. _

Sherlock turned and faced the fireplace, briskly walking towards it. He lifted the skull. Then he knelt to the floor, picking up the Persian slipper and peering into it.

_No cigarettes. No tobacco. _

He smirked, half in amusement, half in annoyance, "This isn't Baker Street. Dear Jim went through a lot of trouble to make it look like it, but he missed the details. The pink phone all over again." He concluded aloud. He couldn't help but frown when he didn't hear John commenting on his brilliance or asking him to explain.

His head whipped around when he heard applause.

"Good! _Very_ good~."

James Moriarty.

Sherlock hadn't even heard him come in.

"Where are we?" He asked, knowing he wouldn't get a direct answer.

"Now, now. Be patient. Why don't we talk over some tea, like _proper_ Englishmen?" Moriarty gestured to the cart behind him that brought a complete tea set and a plate of biscuits.

Sherlock gave a curt nod and sat in John's replicated seat, resuming his previous position. Moriarty dragged the cart closer and poured the tea, handing a cup to Sherlock with a smile. He took his place in Sherlock's "chair" with his own cup.

"Hungry?" Moriarty asked.

"No." Sherlock took a sip of his tea. Earl Grey. "You've outdone yourself this time. Business must be booming if you have the means to make such an elaborate replica of my flat."

Moriarty took a biscuit and bit into it, teeth sharp and fully exposed. "Quite the opposite, actually. It's pretty slow… one of our clients made a _mistake_ and well. I don't like loose ends. Every time something like that happens, it puts me in a bad, bad mood and people tend to back off," he smiled again, "you know how it is."

"I appreciated the video you left on John's blog.* Although, I can't say the same about my friend."

And it began.

"You do have a heart." Moriarty looked far too pleased.

Another sip of tea, "In the biological sense. So do you."

"I wonder where Johnny boy is right now. Hope he isn't anywhere getting himself blown up."

Sherlock felt his lip twitch.

"Oh, and the Inspector. And dear Molly. Pity they're not with us."

"You know perfectly well where they are."

Moriarty feigned innocence, "Do I?" He bit into another biscuit and sank into the chair, letting his head fall back as he closed his eyes and chewed.

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch_.

Silence.

Sherlock stood up and made for the door, "Thank you for the tea."

"Be careful, Sherly. The world is so very scary sometimes."

Sherlock set his cup onto the cart and left the replicated room without looking back, Moriarty's cackling ringing in his ears, to find that he had walked out into a hallway. It was paved with green carpet and well lit, much like a hotel. This was a building and his flat was only one out of many rooms.

_John._

_Molly._

_Lestrade. _

He had to find them. He just had to.

His heart pounded, threatening to beat out of his chest. A sudden panic began to manifest from deep within him. His stomach lurched forward, forcing him to take a step.

_Damn it!_

Sherlock shut his eyes and held his head in between his hands. He needed to calm down. All of these new sensations, they were overwhelming.

_"Poor bloke. The report said his wife just had a kid_," _Lestrade had said to him the first time Sherlock was invited to a crime scene, looking very grim. They were hovering over the victim's body, a businessman in his mid-30s, blissfully married for about a year and a half with a new-born, and at the wrong place at the wrong time._

_"I just started sobbing at that part," he overheard Molly tell one of her colleagues. They were discussing a movie – he deleted the title of it, but the morbid premise proved to be interesting enough to remember – where a man had everything, but was left to his own devices to defend against humanity-turned-zombies._

Sherlock used to not understand.

_"Sentiment_,"_ John had once told him, when they were sitting on a bench at the park and observing a little boy crying in his mother's arms because he had lost his toy robot somewhere along the pond._

But now, he thought maybe he did.

He took a deep breath.

He lowered his hands.

He opened his eyes and held his head high and began to walk.

Looking for a certain person first was a waste of time. He would find them in whatever order they came. He would, without a doubt, find every single one of his "Friends."

* * *

><p><strong>End note:<strong>

* - If you've never looked it up, John's blog actually does exist! Check it out if you haven't. Just go to Google and type in "the blog of John Watson" and it's the first link. Moriarty hacked into his blog and left a video where he's basically walking around the boys' flat with a video camera and commenting on things. It is _fantastic_!


	4. Rescuing The Coroner

**Title:** Experiment in Warehouse 7  
><strong>Paring(s):<strong> Up to your interpretation; hints of John/Sherlock and Lestrade/Molly here and there. This particular chapter could possibly have Sherlock/Molly, but just letting you know, I personally intended it to be more of a bonding moment.  
><strong>Rated:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sherlock attempts to test just how far his "friends" will go for him in a little experiment that involves John, Lestrade, Molly, and surprisingly, Mycroft. Until a Consulting Criminal starts an experiment of his own.

**A/N: **Set in season two, post-Hounds, pre-Reichenbach (cue gross sobbing) so do expect some spoilers. A scene in HoB inspired the premise for this.

In this chapter, there's a little blood, but nothing drastic. Sherlock gets to kick some ass.

OH MY GAH. DID YOU GUYS SEE THE REICHENBACH FALL? Let me just tell you, I was a sobbing mess throughout the whole thing, from beginning to end. It was _so beautiful _and just. I can't even.

Anyways. As always, thank you for reading! Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Ch. 4:<strong> Rescuing The Coroner

* * *

><p>Sherlock considered where his friends could be. Moriarty wanted him to find them, so they would be within the same building, but he didn't want it to be overly simple. Wherever it was they were, they wouldn't be in a room that was open; they would be in rooms that were locked.<p>

Probability was that they wouldn't be on the same floor he was on – the 6th floor, but not any higher, either. To Moriarty, both of them were at the top of the food chain. He headed for the stairwell and made his way safely to the 5th floor.

He needed to know more than just where they were. He needed a code, a master code that would open all of the doors. There wouldn't be anything that important just lying around, meaning he would need to apprehend one of Moriarty's men stationed around the building.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

Sherlock turned around and grinned. A guard! This was too easy.

He began to casually walk towards the other man, "Oh, just taking a stroll. Really nice place you have here."

"You're Sherlock Holmes." The guard reached back for the gun hooked through his belt, but before he could pull it out, Sherlock darted forward, grabbing his arm and twisting it back. The other man cried out in pain and dropped the gun. With a kick to the back of the knees, he was on the ground, writhing. Sherlock confiscated the gun and pinned the man down, his face rubbing uncomfortably against the bright green carpet. Holding the gun to the back of his head, Sherlock began his interrogation, "Tell me the code."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The guard managed to grunt.

"Oh, don't play dumb." He pressed the gun forward, "It doesn't work on me."

"Only he has it. Only _he_ knows it!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The guard was telling the truth.

He pulled back the gun in thought, but leaned forward so more of his weight rested on the man, preventing him from moving.

Sherlock replayed his meeting with Moriarty in his mind. Moriarty wanted him to know the code. If that were the case, he would have given it away then. But he hadn't said any numbers; he hadn't said anything of particular importance. Until –

"_I wonder where the good doctor is now. And the Inspector. And dear Molly. Pity they're not with us." _

He twitched as his thoughts were interrupted by the memory of that obnoxious _crunching_.

Wait.

_Three names. Three crunches. Three numbers. _

"_Oh,_" he breathed and began to laugh, "That's _clever_."

"Let me go!"

Sherlock glanced down at the guard with contempt, "Not yet. Tell me where they are."

The guard sealed his mouth shut, stubborn. He definitely knew something this time.

"God, this is so tedious." Sherlock stood up, but before the guard could follow, shot his left leg. The guard shoved his face into the carpet to muffle his screams and would've rolled around in pain, if not for Sherlock's foot stomping on his back, holding him firmly in place.

"I'm not going to ask you again. Where. Are. They."

All he got was whimpers.

"_TELL. ME._" His eyes were wild with fury and desperation. He pointed the gun again, this time at the other leg, threatening to shoot.

"D-down the hall, make a left, there is a gate at the end with a woman in it! That's the only one I know of!"

Sherlock gave a content smirk. "Excellent. Thank you." And just for good measure, he pulled the trigger and shot the right leg, too.

He then headed quickly for the gate, ignoring the wails of pain behind him.

Sure enough, the gate was there and of course, it was password-protected with a numeric keypad.

"Three names. In the order he said them: John, Lestrade, Molly," he shook his head and shut his eyes, thinking, "No. John, _Greg_, Molly. Three crunches translate into three numbers. But what are the numbers." He opened his eyes and stared at the keypad, looking for any clues and found nothing of importance. Biting his lip, he thought further, contemplating the significance of the names, "John. Greg. Molly. J-O-H-N. Four," he pressed the 4, "G-R-E-G. Four," and another 4, "M-O-L-L-Y. Five." He pressed the 5 and with a click, the barred gate slid open and the door behind it did the same.

When he saw Molly slumped against the wall, but obviously breathing, he sighed with relief. Entering the room – completely bare and with white walls – he looked left and right to make sure there weren't any guards, before kneeling down in front of who he sometimes called The Coroner.

"Molly." He called. When she didn't stir, he hesitated before tapping her face softly.

She opened her eyes and blinked, then lifted her head. There was a scratch under her eye and her lips were cracked open, but she was fine everywhere else. Her eyes went wide at the sight of Sherlock, "Oh my god, thank goodness you're okay!" was the first thing she said to him. She looked like she was going to cry. Sherlock thought she really was so unnecessarily emotional, but it was for him and now that he somewhat understood why, he didn't find it as annoying. "When you fell unconscious, we were all so scared because we thought something happened. And then Jim, his men came, and took us away and brought us here. They took you in a different vehicle."

"They didn't do anything to you?"

"Well, I resisted getting dragged off and they sort of hit me," she pointed to the wounds on her face, "but I'm fine."

"Can you stand?"

She nodded. "Have you found John and Greg yet?"

He shook his head, "You're the fir –"

"Sherlock! Behind you!" Molly cried, horror in her eyes.

He whipped his head around and saw the guard he had shot earlier, blood flowing down his leg, filtering through his trousers, making a trail behind him from where he came. He lifted his arm, a gun Sherlock had not taken away in his hand, his expression crazed and out for vengeance.

What came next was a complete blur of movement and noise.

Molly pushing against Sherlock with all of her strength, toppling him over. A bang. A splatter of blood across his face. Molly falling forward, into his arms.

He was fine. He felt no force slapping against his back, no bullet penetrating his skin, his organs, no pain at all. But he felt the warmness of blood trickling down Molly's left arm, slipping through his fingers, dripping loudly onto the stark white floor.

She had protected him.

In one swift movement, Sherlock aimed his own gun at the guard, who was fumbling in shock for another shot, but was too slow. Sherlock pulled the trigger for the third time and sent a bullet straight through the man's head. He fell to the ground without another sound, dead.

Sherlock turned his attention to Molly, tenderly flipping her over in his arms and laying her down. She was unconscious. He tore the sleeve of her cardigan off to examine the wound better. It wasn't deep, but the bleeding was profuse. He held his hand around the injury, applying pressure to stop the blood flow. Undoing his scarf, he wound it tightly around her forearm, using it as a bandage. He slipped off his coat and wrapped her in it.

"You'll be all right."

* * *

><p>Molly felt like she was floating on clouds. She wasn't walking on her own two feet. Someone was carrying her.<p>

The smooth fabric of their suit rubbed against her cheek and when she shifted slightly, their hair tickled her nose. Oh, she was being carried on somebody's back. They smelled sweet, like a kitchen full of freshly baked cakes, with a tint of cigarettes. It was so warm, and the arms hooked around her legs were so strong, yet gentle, like they were afraid of breaking her.

But surely, she wasn't that weak. Then she realised a different sort of heat pooling around her forearm. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw a blotch red – blood – seeping through a striped blue scarf tightly tied around her arm. A numbing pain surrounded the wound.

"…Sherlock?"

"Don't talk." His voice was barely a whisper.

She noticed that she had his coat slung over her shoulders. "W-what are you doing?"

"I said not to talk."

"You can put me down. I'm fine. I can walk. The bullet just grazed me. A wound like this isn't enough to ki –"

"Don't say it!" It came out harshly, but he must've realised how he sounded and sighed, "Just… be quiet."

"Right. Sorry."

A moment of silence hung over them.

She lifted her eyes and caught a glimpse of Sherlock's profile. He really was very beautiful, she thought; it was an ethereal sort of beauty not natural to this world and matched his alien mind, so intelligent that rather than being glorified, it was constantly mocked and scorned. But today, instead of being held up high in pride and a dash of arrogance, his expression looked awfully sad and ragged. His bright eyes, that no single colour could describe, were attentive, yet hazy.

His voice, too, Molly noticed, was different. It was quiet, drained of energy, afraid of saying something it shouldn't say. Almost as if…

"It's not your fault. What happened. I mean, they were after you. But I chose to… get in the way."

"Molly!"

She pressed on despite the edge in Sherlock's voice, "You know, I always wondered, how I could be of use to you. I know that you ask me for a lot of things and that when you say… nice things about me, you don't really mean it. And that's fine! Because I want to help. But… I want to help for _real_. Without being asked the way you ask me. If you know what I mean… and I was able to do that today. For you. So if you're… worried, or anything, you don't have to be."

And it was silent again. Molly never could hold up a proper conversation with Sherlock. She often thought it was because she wasn't smart enough to keep up with what he was saying, but then she came to the conclusion that it was because from the start, he had no true desire to talk to her.

"I am sorry," he muttered. He glanced back at her and their eyes locked. He was being sincere.

She smiled, "You can let me down now, since I'm awake and I'm not bleeding anymore."

Sherlock stopped walking and knelt on one knee, allowing Molly to hop off with more ease.

"You can keep that. For now," he offered, standing back up. She nodded and slipped her arms through the coat. It was way too big.

They continued on, side by side.

"Do you know where the others are?" Molly asked.

"I have an idea. That guard back there, who attacked us, only told me where you were. Your name, it has five letters, so you were on the 5th floor. John and Lestrade are most likely on the 4th floor, since both of their first names have four letters. The 3-digit code that opens the gates also lies in your names." He stretched out an arm to stop her once they reached the end of the hall. Peeking his head out, he made sure there were no surprises waiting for them. Not seeing anybody, they proceeded to their right, "We're going to need to run into more men like him if we are to know _exactly_ where they are, however."

"What happened to him? The guard, I mean."

Sherlock looked at her, "I took care of it. He won't be coming after us again."

"Oh," he was being intentionally obscure about it, but she knew exactly what he meant.

They reached the exit sign.

"We'll be taking the stairs down. Elevator is too unpredictable. Stay close to me." He readied his gun and opened the door with Molly right behind him.


End file.
